Universal
by Peridot Tears
Summary: China hates Japan.
1. Brothers Forever

**_PT: I'm following that meme where you listen to your music on shuffle and write a drabble depending on each within the duration of the song._**

_Disclaimer: If Hidekazu Himaruya was me—not the other way around, of course—I would totally have more PruHun UST._

_..._

**えいえんのせつな****– On/Off**

We are brothers forever.

Nothing can change that.

These thoughts run through America's mind as he stares after England.

And suddenly, America is young again. Younger than he is. Fresh-faced and blue-eyed, his new uniform already worn by wind and snow.

His hair is blond, like England's.

His eyes are blue; he is white.

And he is the one walking away, not England. He can feel the familiar green eyes, apple green eyes, grazing his back, and can almost hear the slight whimpering. Those are all familiar to him, and he feels sorry. Sorry to let go of him like this.

But he could not take anymore, and England should've known.

He, America, would let no one obstruct the _life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness _of his people; because now, they are his people.

His roots are British.

But he is American.

And let this be how it is from now on.


	2. Like A River

_Disclaimer: Imagine the nightmares you would have if I drew Hetalia instead._

_..._

**つぐぎうのうた**** – Vocaloid**

Let the sound of the gu zheng be my testament.

I am five thousand years old. Perhaps, someday, I will be six thousand years old. My age keeps in time with the Chang Jiang, the Huang He, and only the mountains, the sky, are older than me.

I am China.

Let the pipa, too, be my witness.

Let its strings be plucked with every drop of rain that falls from the sky. Every splash of snow against the Great Wall, the flesh-and-blood Chang Cheng. Let it flow through the earth.

And let the er hu sing for me. Let it tell the world, with its ancient sound of heaven, of times and times gone by, of a history older than any the world has come to know.


	3. After A Storm

_Disclaimer: I'm not Japanese._

_..._

**He Plays The Violin – Martha Jefferson, 1776**

There is a sort of peace when Hungary listens to the music. She listens to it filling the house. It flows down the corridors, through the windows and doors.

It's soothing. She has Austria to thank for that.

Every time she hears it, she wants to go to its source. Find the piano, sit down beside Austria, and never leave. Never mind the broom, the apron.

Here, it is calm.


	4. And he takes Kiku's hands

_Disclaimer: Yep. I'm Hidekazu Himaruya. You got me. -poker face-_

_..._

**江上行 - 阿兰**

"Look, Kiku!" says Yao, pointing out at the river.

And he looks. He watches it splash against the boat.

"The river never stops flowing," he says, and Yao smiles, because he can understand his meaning.

"The tides are endless," says Yao. "Like us." And he takes Kiku's hands.


	5. Put some dust on it

_Disclaimer: Remember when I first joined FF and had so many clever ways to disclaim stuff? I've finally run out. Hooray._

_..._

**ふたつの鼓動と赤い罪****– On/Off**

Red is luck. Red is blood.

Red is the color of the bride's wedding veil, draped over her head. It hides her from her groom.

These are the thoughts running through Yao's head as he sits silently, watching out the window. The montage is fresh and vivid in his mind.

When he shot Taiwan in the shoulder, when her face turned to him, twisted in pain and hatred.

The rush of a bloody history.

When he spat his blood over Hong Kong's face, knowing that his time was done, that he had to give him away.

And Japan, his brown eyes dead, unfamiliar, the night he slashed his back open for the world to see.

Let the dust choke and cover his wounds.


	6. The Occident

_Disclaimer: fjdal;kfjdsa_

_..._

**荒野流転**** (****Wilderness Vicissitudes) – FictionJunction Yuuka**

Bushido.

_Bushido._

It rolls off his tongue, comes out with quality like flint, sparking and igniting.

And he thinks, as he studies the katana in his hands, _the best sword in the world, _that he will do anything to succeed. To fly away and _change._

There is blood on his hands, of course, it will always, always be there.

But that is the irony of it: He wants to postpone. He wants to stem the flow, all the while knowing he will never be able to choke it down.

_But life is long, life is short, and he will do anything, anything that he thinks is right._

And he thinks, at the edge of his mind, that he is fading into madness. Nothing makes sense anymore. Thousands of years of tea and koto and kanji, kabuki and honor, are about to fall away in an instant. It is like death—the life builds and prospers, struggling to take hold, taking years and years to build; all to the climax, where a single cut dissolves it to memory.

And with this katana—_the greatest weapon in the world—_he makes this cut.


End file.
